Fuel on the Fire
by Sailing for my Dreams
Summary: Waverly Mongelle, victor of the 70th hunger games, has been angry ever since her brother died. So when Plutarch asks for her help in the revolution, she agrees. But what will happen when the plan involves her fake marriage to the very person that killed her brother? And why is Plutarch so concerned about the third Quarter Quell? R&R! (OCxOC Everlark,Finnie, canon pairings)
1. Introduction

**Waverly Mongelle, victor of the 70****th**** hunger games, has had an anger in her ever since her brother died. So when Plutarch asks for her help in the revolution, she readily agrees. But what will happen when the plan involves her fake marriage to the very person that killed her brother? And why is Plutarch so concerned about the third Quarter Quell? R&R!**

**A/N:**

**Well, here it is. I have finally made my first hunger games fanfic. And it's only taken…three or four years…*sigh*. But anyway, I know this first chapter doesn't give away too terribly much about the plot but please stick with me! **

I am woken from my sleep the same way I always am. Through Grandmother's gentle touch on my panicking body, her voice soft compared to my horrified screams.

"No!" I hear a voice shouting in utter terror. It takes me a moment to realize that it's my own. "No! Leave me alone! Get away!"

"Waverly, wake up. You are dreaming, Waverly."

My eyes fly open and I jolt upright, red eyes looking wildly around for a weapon that they won't find. It's not until I see Grandmother's face that I am truly out of my nightmare.

Except I'm not. Unlike nightmares people usually have, I can't wake up from mine. I may be able to pretend, but they never truly go away. It's just that at day I can at least distract myself and act like nothing happened. But there is no saving me from the dreams at night. That's where Mima comes in.

"Sorry, Mima," I mumble, using the nickname I have used for my grandmother since I was a child. There was a time, for a while, when I had discarded the name made for the sole reason of my not being able to pronounce "Grandmother" at age four. But ever since returning from the games five years ago and finding that my father had abandoned us in my absence, I've reverted back to the old habit.

Mima gives me a gentle smile, one of the things she is best at. Her old blue eyes, which have become more gray than anything, look softly down at me. Her fragile hand gives my own a comforting squeeze.

"You know you don't have to apologize, Waverly," she reminds me, "not to anyone, and certainly not to me."

"Sorry," I repeat.

My name is Waverly Mongelle. Almost five years ago, I won the 70th annual hunger games. I live in district 5, a place nearly devoid of victors. There are three male tributes, two of them elderly and one of them a man with two young kids and a newborn. There is only one other female victor, but I haven't seen her since she mentored me in my own games, and even then I don't remember ever hearing her speak.

During the day, it's easy to pretend. It's easy to forget that the games ever even happened, to stow it away in a place of your mind you never go to by choice. But at night, there's no hiding from the memories. They're always there at night, when you can't escape them. The Capitol doctors wrote it off as shock at first, but after they had to stop the video of clips from the hunger games (customary for winners, along with the interview and victory tour) because I started screaming at seeing the faces of those I killed, they diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder.

But, like I said, it's easy to pretend during the day. I avoid the slaughterhouse, keep physical contact to a minimum, and only visit the doctor if I absolutely have to. It makes things better, if only a little bit.

During the first year after the games, I tried to get over it, return to normal life. That was when I started throwing knives on the wall of the back of my Victor's Village house. No one seemed to care, or if they did, nothing was done about it. At first, it was hard. I had to stop frequently, suddenly convinced that I was back in the arena. My older brother Cory had to pull me out of my nightmares, both when I was awake and when I was asleep.

Things got worse again after Cory volunteered for the hunger games the year after.

My brother was my best friend. My stress reached a new high after he left. I couldn't eat because my sudden fear of it being poison; I couldn't sleep for fear of being found by careers; I couldn't even leave the house without being pursued by tributes trying to kill me. Mima tried to bring in a doctor, but on seeing her—a woman that had been close to my family for a long time, someone whose daughter I would pass the days with when I was little—I screamed until she left, convinced that she was from the Capitol.

The nightmares could be counted on. They were expected at night, and they were almost always the same: some variations of me killing and being killed. But the visions, and the fears, they were random and usually made no sense. Once I even managed to convince myself that my grandmother was a fallen tribute, out to kill me. I knew what the district was saying about me, that I had gone crazy. Sometimes I believed them.

When Cory died, I became the worst I had ever been. For months after all I can remember is screaming. Bloody, horrible shrieks of pure terror. Hot, heavy tears pouring down my face. Hyperventilating until I couldn't breathe. My life was a living hell. I was always in the arena. Only this time, Cory was there with me. And neither of us could leave. We were trapped, and there was no escaping.

After a while, the visions and screaming subsided. My head began to clear up a bit. That was when my hatred fully began to settle in. Hatred for District 2 tribute, Sam Ivory. The victor of the 71st hunger games.

And murderer of my brother.

Once my head cleared itself of the visions and my heart began to darken, it was easier. I learned how to put up a front, how to pretend. I became very good at it. I would go to the Capitol events that they wanted me to go to, be interviewed by those that wanted to interview me, I even went to the broadcasted interviews of last hunger games. Of course, I never mentored. Even the Capitol knew that was too much to expect. But I could still pretend.

The nightmares never truly leave, though.


	2. An offer

A dull thunk sounds as the tip of the kitchen knife makes contact with the outside wall of the house. It's not the first time I've thrown the knife, so there is small pit on the side, where I aim every time and never miss. I take a deep breath before walking over to retrieve it, silently reminding myself that it's not real.

_I won the 70__th__ hunger games…all the tributes are dead…no one is trying to kill me._

The knife has barely returned to my hand before it's gone again, perfectly hitting the wall with a flick of my wrist.

_All the tributes are dead…no one is trying to kill me._

The back door creaks, alerting me of my grandmother's presence just a second too late. She barely stops herself from walking in front of my target, and expresses this with a yelp.

"I really wish you wouldn't throw the knives out here," she says. She says it every time she sees me doing it, but her warnings always go unheeded. I understand why she hates my knife throwing—she was the one that watched all those years as I drifted in and out of delirium as a result of the games—but I can't stop, and she knows it. Throwing is the difference between anger and hallucination, and I'll take anger over the latter any day.

"Did you need something, Mima?" I say, a little frustrated that she is disturbing me while I'm trying to throw.

"Do I always have to need something to come talk to you?" she replies in a teasing tone. Like me, though she won't admit it, she prefers the anger to delirium as well. Anything is better than watching your granddaughter scream at the very sight of other humans, I guess.

"You do when I'm throwing," I say, my attempt at teasing back, but I have a feeling it comes out rougher than I meant it. It always does when I'm throwing. There is another thunk as my weapon of choice digs into the wall. My shoulders tense up a bit as my mind suddenly plunges itself headfirst into the games.

_Lea, the district 1 girl, falls limply against the tree, pinned into place by the knife in her chest. Her overconfident grin barely has time to transform to a grimace of horror before the cannon goes off. I can barely comprehend what I have done, but I don't have time either, as the career pack races towards their fallen teammate, weapons raised and pointed—_

"Waverly? Waverly!"

I jolt back to reality at Mima's voice. My mouth opens to scream, still caught in the hallucination. I barely stop it from leaving my throat. Mima is staring at me with worry. When I close my eyes, it's partly to escape the illusion and partly to escape that look full of pity.

_All the tributes are dead…no one is trying to kill me._

Back down to earth, I look at Mima. "Sorry…were you saying something?"

Mima sighs impatiently, and it occurs to me that she has become something of a mother again in the past five years. The wrinkles surrounding her eyes are visual reminders that I'm not an easy person to be put in charge of. "I told you not to apologize," she mutters.

"What?" I say. It takes me a moment to realize I said sorry to her again. "Oh! Sorry—I mean—um…" For some stupid reason, not apologizing is easier said than done. "Whatever, just repeat what you said before?"

Sighing, and looking about ten years older with each passing moment, she repeats, "You have company. Now, don't give me that look!" the last part referring to the look of disgust I give at the mention of human contact.

"I'm not in the mood for visitors, Mima." I return to my target practice as a way of ending the conversation, but soon stop dead in my tracks.

"It's the new head gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee."

Plutarch Heavensbee is surrounded by peacekeepers standing guard in my kitchen. I can't help but think that the reason is probably because of the time I almost threw a knife at a visitor after one of my panic attacks… Come to think of it, I'm not exactly sure why they still allow me to possess knives after that. Especially in the presence of a great Capitol figure.

I've never met the new head gamemaker—I didn't even know they had a new one, though I should have expected as much after the last games. Plutarch is a large man, not very shocking to me, as low as my opinions of Capitol authorities already are. His hair is grayish white. I can't help but think that he looks like President Snow without the beard. Except for one major difference. Plutarch Heavensbee is smiling.

"Hello, Miss Mongelle," he says, politely standing to his feet. I don't move from my spot in the doorway, trying to decide whether or not pretending to be delighted by his presence is worth the effort or not. Nodding his head forward in a slight greeting, he continues by unnecessarily introducing himself. "My name is Plutarch Heavensbee, the new head gamemaker."

For some reason, the way he says the word gamemaker really rubs me the wrong way. Was I supposed to congratulate him for this achievement? I decide to drop the idea of pretending, deciding that I really don't care what he thinks of my manners.

"So I've heard," I reply, as if discussing the weather. I can practically hear Mima's impending heart attack at hearing me speak to him so.

But if Plutarch finds my behavior rude, he doesn't show it. Instead, he looks to the peacekeepers and nods. They take that as their signal to leave and solute before doing so. I turn to look to Mima, but she has already left. Not that I can blame her.

I know without looking that Plutarch is looking at me, his cold eyes staring menacingly, watching my every move. It's as if I'm back in the arena.

I set my knife in the sink before I can cause any damage.

"So," I say, "I'd say that it's a pleasure to see you, but I think we can both agree that it's really not." I look over at the gamemaker. To my surprise, this remark has caused him to laugh.

"I knew I picked the right girl," he says amidst chuckles. I raise my eyebrows. _Whatever that means. _

"What is that supposed to mean?" There is more indignation in my voice than there should be. Everything seems off about this guy, though. How could it not? He _is _the head gamemaker.

Instead of answering my question, he gives me one of his own. "I assume you know about what happened in the last hunger games, do you not?"

"Of course I do," I say, because, who doesn't know what happened the last hunger games? For the first time in seventy-three years of bloodbaths, there were two victors: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Frankly, it's insulting that he even asks this, which causes me to say, "By the way, how is Seneca Crane?" I'm way out of term, and I know it. But something tells me that this is what he wants.

"Seneca Crane," he says, "is not…currently living."

I laugh. "Oh, but I have such pleasant memories of his plotting my death."

"I have no doubt of it," Plutarch comments, "that's why I wanted to talk to you." When I say nothing, he takes it as permission to go on. "When I say mockingjay, what comes to your mind?"

"A bird," I say plainly, "a mutt between a mockingbird and a jabberjay. But I assume that's not what you came here to discuss."

Plutarch opens his mouth to speak, but pauses just before the words can leave his mouth. I've stumped him, I realize to my delight.

"Do you always talk like this?" He tries a different tactic. "Speak your mind so freely in the presence of Capitol officials?"

"Yeah, well," I say, thinking about my last panic attack in front of company, "consider yourself lucky. I've been known to do wor—"

"Why?" he interrupts me as if trying to prove a point. "Are you not afraid of what they'll do to you?"

"And what could they possibly do to me?" I speak as if talking to a child. It's as if I _want _to provoke him. "Kill me? They already tried that. And if they think they'll succeed if they try again, then by all means, go ahead."

Suddenly Plutarch slams his fist down on the table and stands up. I'll admit, it even startles me.

"_That _is the kind of attitude I want!" he says excitedly.

I raise my eyebrows suspiciously from behind a veil of red hair. "What exactly do you want?"

Once again failing to answer my question, Plutarch walks over until he is standing directly in front of me. I half-consciously take a step back. Touching a gamemaker is not exactly high on my to-do list, especially not the head one.

"You don't have to lie to me, Waverly," he says. "Now, what does the word mockingjay mean to you?"

I'm about to feed him another sarcastic response when I look down at his watch, which I hadn't even seen appear in his hand. Breathlessly I watch as he rubs his thumb across the glass, and—so fast that I wonder if it's my imagination—a mockingjay appears and fades. So stunned am I that it takes a moment to recover.

"Well?" Plutarch is encouraging, "What is it to you?"

I don't know why I do, but I tell him the truth.

"A mockingjay," I say, "is a symbol of rebellion against the Capitol. It gives people hope to speak out against it and everything that it stands for. It represents the coming revolution that should have taken place a long time ago." Even I can't believe the last, defiant sentence I spoke. Any official with sense would call the peacekeepers back in, have me arrested, have me put to death. But like he has responded at every other outburst of mine, Plutarch just smiles.

"Is that what you think?"

"That's what I think," I reply coolly.

"Miss Mongelle," he says, "I think you have figured out by now that I am not your average gamemaker. This will go a lot faster if we both agree not to hide anything."

"I agree," I retort, "But I haven't been hiding anything. So what is it you really want?"

There isn't a moment's hesitation with what Plutarch says next (and that might be what scares me the most about him). "Waverly, how would you like to help take down the Capitol?"

The most surprise he gets out of me physically is a raise of my eyebrows. Everything about this is screaming "trap!" but I ignore it. For some reason unknown even to me, I feel like Plutarch Heavensbee is not lying to me. And if he were, it would be an awful lot of trouble for nothing. I pretend to think about it for a while before shrugging.

"Sure. Not every day you become part of a revolution."


	3. Meet the revolutionaries

**A/N:**

**Review! I want to know if I should continue with this. I have a fairly good idea as to where it's going, but I want your opinions! Whether you're a guest or a user, review, review, REVIEW!**

Revolution looks a lot like a Capitol hovercraft.

I frown as I follow Plutarch through the many rooms on board. I had been on hovercrafts before, of course, but this one is much bigger than I have ever seen before. It's exactly what I would expect to find a head gamemaker in, and that's not a good thing. My entire being tenses up just being in it. The second thoughts begin to form in my brain.

Plutarch must see this, because he begins to rush to reassure me. "It's a little much, but it's private."

In other words, he hates the frivolousness of it all just as much as I do, but it's safe from prying ears. Though I seriously doubt this, as my eyes narrow suspiciously at the many servants rush to and fro, offering me this tray and that. How much would it take, I wonder, to convince them to drop whatever loyalties they have with Heavensbee in exchange for Snow's favor? Even if it means betraying whatever he has planned.

At last we reach a room that looks remotely like a small banquet hall, or a meeting room. It's currently empty, with cups of a steaming, oddly blue liquid in four of the spots.

"Please have a seat," Plutarch gestures to one of the chairs. After seeing my refusal to move from where I currently stand, he shrugs. "Or don't. If you'll excuse me for a moment." He turns to exit through the door we just came from. I look after him suspiciously for a moment before turning to observe the room.

It seems as if everything in the room reflects my image in some form. Even in the walls, I can see a vague image of myself: the thick red hair, which I had hastily thrown back into a ponytail, the blue eyes almost devoid of light, the permanently plastered frown. My frame is skinny and frail, desirable in the Capitol but common in the districts. I've never understood it, why it is so important to prominent Capitol citizens to retain a skinny figure. They have all the food they could ever hope to need, and they want to look like they're starving?

"Waverly Mongelle."

I whirl around to face the source of the noise, yelping when I see the speaker literally inches from my face. Even close up, the eyes are unmistakable. There is only one person I have ever known to have such enchanting green eyes.

"Finnick Odair," I reply, frustrated that he caused me to lose my calm façade. We sound as if we're old acquaintances, colleagues maybe. Discussing something casual. I've never actually met him before.

"So you're the famous Waverly Mongelle," Finnick says, even though he just established as much.

Finnick Odair is something of a wild card to me. I'm sure exactly how his presence makes me feel. Surprised, for sure, but beyond that. What does it mean, if Finnick Odair, the subject of complete adoration in the Capitol, is on board a hovercraft supposedly fighting against it?

Finnick won the Hunger Games five years before me. He is a few years older than me, but looks as if he could still be eligible for the games. His sickenly angelic appearance is almost too much to take in, especially for someone as disgusted by fashion as I am. Immediately deciding I don't like him, I proudly straighten out my spine to appear taller.

"Oh, I wouldn't say famous," I say casually.

"Oh, but I would," he replies, "I can't tell you how many times my fans in the Capitol have asked if I have ever spoken to you before."

"I must be famous, then. If they can pause in their adoration over you to ask about me."

"My thoughts exactly," he says, smiling. I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. Of course his teeth would be perfectly white.

"What can I say?" I mutter, half to myself. "The Capitol must have something for nutcases."

"Oh, I think there is more that they like about you than that."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Finnick leans forward until his lips are practically brushing against my ear. He must be trying to intimidate me, or fluster me into losing my thoughts; but honestly, the only thing it makes me feel is annoyance. He whispers, in response to my half sarcastic question, "Mystery."

I can't contain myself anymore after that. "Seriously?" I say. "Do people in the Capitol really fall for that seductiveness spiel?"

This causes him to stumble for words for a moment, which causes me to smile. What can I say? I love having that effect on people. But, being Finnick Odair, he soon recovers, smiling.

"Well, aren't you something?" he says. "I just don't know what to do with you."

Plutarch walks in, stopping what was sure to be an endlessly annoying conversation. It's the first time I've ever been happy to see a gamemaker. Seeing my disgusted look and Finnick's closeness, he smiles.

"I see you've met Finnick," he notes unnecessarily.

"Yes. I wasn't aware you would have such…distinguished company," I reply, eyeing Finnick's smirking face. "He's leaving, I suppose?" _I hope. _

"Oh, no need to look so disappointed, sweetheart," Finnick says. I don't know why, but he makes me think of a snake. A pretty snake, sure, but a snake just the same. "I'm part of the revolution too. Same as you."

Hearing this, and seeing Plutarch's confirming nod, makes me feel both annoyed and a bit relieved. Bothersome as he has so far proved to be, he is smart. How else could he have won the Hunger Games at just fourteen? I might not have put very much thought into it when I said yes to helping, but he surely did. That must mean it isn't a trick, doesn't it?

But then again, Finnick is well-loved by the Capitol. He could be part of the trick as well. Or, if he isn't, how much would it take for him to turn everyone in? The Capitol must give him everything he could ever need. Why would he want to destroy it?

However, for some ridiculously stupid reason that I can't even comprehend, I don't believe that is the case.

I'm from District 5. People usually associate that with intelligence, or science. It would make sense, since we are the power district. But I've always hated science. It is utterly stupid to me. How can you claim to believe in anything when you always need proof to do so? Having proof isn't believing. It's seeing what's in front of you.

Maybe that's why I so stupidly like to believe the better so often. It might also be why I'm labeled in the Capitol as the girl who lost her head.

"Alright then," I say after a while. "And will there be anyone else joining us in this?"

"Well, as of now, only—"

"Um, Finnick," Plutarch nervously interrupts. "Are you sure this is the best time to bring that up?"

Finnick shrugs. "Better now than never."

"Well…are you going to tell me who else?" I ask uneasily.

"Um…" Plutarch says, "Well, I was coming in here to tell you that you have a very important part in this plan."

"Who else is there?" I demand, this time looking to Finnick for help.

He shrugs, looking at Plutarch. "It's no use hiding it from her, Plutarch."

"It's a very important part," Plutarch is babbling on, "It could be what starts a revolution."

"Who else is there!?" I shout, infuriated now.

I hear the door slide open.

"Is that my cue to come in?"

Every bone in my body freezes, and I look at the speaker. Plutarch doesn't have to say who it is. I might not have ever met him, but I immediately recognize the person to enter. Those evil brown eyes covered by darker brown hair could belong to no one else.

The fourth edition to the revolution is my brother's murderer, Sam Ivory.

**A/N:**

**Hey, so I have my first plot twist! I know I'm moving painfully slow, but bear with me, it should speed up soon. Review? *puppy eyes***


	4. Killer

**A/N:**

**Thank you to Sissymac for my first review! Hope you guys enjoy!**

For a moment I stand there, frozen and unable to move. He looks me over and smirks at my horrified expression.

"You look surprised to see me," he says. "I've made you speechless."

The flurry of curses that leave my mouth show just how "speechless" I am. And he looks a lot more surprised than I do when I run toward him, aiming to kill.

I don't have time to look for a weapon. I must have lost whatever I had grabbed at the cornucopia, because my hands are empty. The other tributes that were with me have vanished, but there isn't time to look for them. The district 2 career, Sam Ivory, is right ahead of me, and the smirk on his face makes it clear that there can't be any running from him. It's either kill or be killed; and I am not going to be killed.

He seems genuinely shocked to see me lunge at him. Maybe it's because I don't have a weapon, or because he thought I wasn't going to put up a fight. Either way, he's wrong. I am not going down without a fight, and, if nothing else, I have my fists and nails to rely on in a fight.

Before I can even touch him, something heavy and strong wraps its arms around me, effectively stopping me from reaching my intended target. Angrily, I whip my head around to face this new assailant. It's Finnick Odair, tribute from district 4. I snarl. Of course it would be another career.

"Waverly," a voice is saying, "this isn't the Games. You aren't in the Games."

The words are strange. They seem like they should make sense to me, but for some reason they don't. All they manage to do is make me pause in my attempt to throw my elbow back against Finnick's rib cage. I take long enough after that to think about the words that soon I find that Finnick has thrown both his arms around me again, this time trapping my arms so that I can't hurt him even if I want to. I settle instead for struggling as hard as I can.

"Let me go!" I scream, "Let me go!"

"Afraid I—er—afraid I can't," Finnick grunts, barely dodging my flailing legs.

Suddenly, the stout figure of Plutarch Heavensbee is in front of me, gravely regarding me.

"Miss Mongelle," he says calmly, "You won your Hunger Games five years ago. You are not in it anymore."

I don't know why, but that must be the trigger to finally make everything click back into the place. Everything makes sense again. I'm not in the Hunger Games. No one is trying to kill me. I'm in no danger. Everything makes sense.

Okay, almost everything. There was still one issue. My brother's murderer is still in the room.

Finnick has barely released me from his grip when I slide numbly to the ground, only to jump up less than a second later. Sam Ivory is looking at me curiously, arching an eyebrow. No doubt trying to decide exactly what is wrong with the nutcase of District 5. I point an accusing finger at him.

"What is he doing here?!" I demand wildly. The question is directed at Plutarch, but I refuse to move my eyes from the boy I just tried to kill.

"He isn't here to hurt you," Plutarch says. I sneer.

"Yeah, and I'm sure he wasn't 'here to hurt' my brother either!"

"I didn't mean—" Sam begins to advance toward me as he speaks, but something in my eyes must tell him that isn't a good idea. He rethinks the situation, instead taking a step backwards and raising his hands defensively. "Look," he says, "I'm here for the same reason as you."

"A Career against the Capitol? Yeah. I'll believe that when I see it."

"He's not the only former Career in this room, Honey," Finnick says. After sending a quick glare at him, I ignore the comment. My finger remains pointed aggressively at Sam, as if it were a knife I were threatening him with. If anything, it seems to perplex him enough to keep him from approaching any closer.

Everyone is quiet for a minute. Three pairs of eyes are all fixed on me, wondering how to smooth out the situation without setting off a bomb. All of them are waiting for someone else to speak, not brave enough to attempt to themselves.

The person that finally does break the silence is Sam. "I'm sorry," he says.

This single sentence is more than enough to confuse me. For once I actually am speechless. Sorry? Is that really the word that just left his mouth? What irked me most was the sincerity I could swear I heard in his voice. For the first time I allow myself to observe the person to kill my brother.

He's tall. At least six inches taller than me. His brown hair has fallen lazily over his forehead, just avoiding touching the dark eyes beneath. He is wearing simple clothing: dark pants with a grey shirt. In all, he looked unimpressed with luxury or the special treatment his district was prone to. If he wasn't the person that killed Cory to win the Games, I might almost believe his intentions. But he was.

"What?" I spit out at last.

He regards me with an unreadable face with his next sentence. "I said, I'm sorry…about your brother…about Cory." I wince visibly at the use of my dead brother's name coming from his mouth. This does not go unnoticed by him. "I was a different person then…the Games can change people."

A distant look has fixed itself in his eyes; I'm not even sure he notices it. I know that look. It's been on my own face too many times to count. He is thinking about the Games, reliving too-vivid memories, maybe even picturing my brother. Part of me feels sympathy, having gone through the same thing for five years now. But the other, much larger part doesn't care.

"So you expect me to just forgive you?" I sneer. "Just like that? After you killed my brother?"

"No." Sam replies calmly. "There's no way I would ever ask you to forgive something like that."

And he's done it again. Confused me so thoroughly that I am left with my mouth gaping like a fish freshly out of water. I literally have no idea what to say in response. He is reacting just how he is supposed to react. Every little thing he is saying is courteous and respectful and I hate him for it. How am I supposed to hate my brother's killer when the way he is reacting is exactly how he should? I'm trying desperately to find something to hate about his attitude, but to my extreme annoyance, I can't.

I'm so irritated with his politeness that I can't stand to look at him anymore, turning instead to Plutarch. "So, what?" I say. "You just thought you could involve him in whatever this great plan of yours is, and I would go along with it?"

"Actually," Plutarch admits, "You're reacting fairly close to how I thought you would."

Finally, something to make me mad. Glaring viciously at the gamemaker, I say, "Well, whatever sick plan this is, you can count me out as long as he is here!" Sam doesn't even flinch when I jab my finger back in his direction.

"I'm afraid that won't work," Plutarch says plainly.

"And why not?"

"Because…I need both of you for this plan."

"And why would that be?" I snarl and send a demanding glare at Sam. He just raises his hands defensively.

"Hey," he says, "I'm just as clueless to this plan as you are."

"Convenient," I scoff, turning my wild glare back to Plutarch, who is looking at me thoughtfully.

"I need both of you," he says, in response to my previous question, "because you two are the only ones that can do it."

"What are you talking about? What exactly is this plan?"

"The plan," Plutarch says, "is your fake marriage to Sam."

**A/N:**

**Ugh I know I know. This is moving painfully slow. I was going to add more but really wanted to update for you guys! Next chapter will be a long one, I promise. There should hopefully be only one more slow-paced chapter if all goes to plan, but stick with me! And review!**


	5. Painting a picture

**A/N:**

**Welp, here's that long chapter I promised you!**

I am really getting tired of being surprised.

For a long minute the silence is deafening. Finnick is looking at me, probably watching for my reaction. Plutarch is also looking at me, his eyebrows raised in a questioning angle. I don't even want to know how Sam is reacting, and I purposely don't look at him.

Marriage… did I just hear him right?

"No, seriously," I say at last, a small part of me hoping that maybe he was joking, although somehow I know this isn't so. Plutarch, in the short time that I have known him, has not given me the impression that he does anything without a reason.

"I am serious," he says flatly, confirming my fears.

I let out a short bark of laughter, smiling even as I want to run. They wouldn't take me seriously if I let on how horrified I am actually feeling. It is better that they think I'm angry rather than scared. I still avoid looking at Sam as I say, "Yes, and I am sure that will start a fantastic revolution," my voice dripping with sarcasm.

From the corner of my eye, I see Sam walk forward. I try to ignore the tightening of every muscle in my body, gritting my teeth in annoyance. Was he here specifically to throw me off my game?

"Hate to say it, Plutarch," he is saying, "but I'm not sure I am following you either… she did just try to kill me, after all." He turns and offers me an almost shy, apologetic smile. "Not that I didn't deserve it."

My cheeks burn hotly, both from embarrassment at my earlier outburst and from indignation at his constant ability to make me speechless. I find myself hating him more every moment I am on this hovercraft with him.

"Yes, do explain, Heavensbee," I say, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.

"I'm kind of curious to hear this as well," Finnick mutters amusedly. He is still looking at me and… is he laughingat me? I glare at him too before turning pointedly back to Plutarch. He has the same, irritating smirk on his own face. I want to scream in irritation. Was _anyone_ taking this seriously?

"What was different about the last Victory Tour?" Plutarch asks, and from his expression it's clear that he expects this is enough to suffice an explanation. It isn't. I am just as confused and irritated as ever.

Of course the last Victory Tour was different. This year there were two victors instead of one: the so-called "star-crossed lovers" of district 12. I never attend the sick celebration when the victors are in my district, and even I know that. But I suppose he is also talking about the end of the tour, where it was announced that Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen were going to get married.

Sam's words echo my thoughts. "Peeta Mellark proposed to Katniss Everdeen… and what does that have to do with us?"

"And what do you think of the proposal?" Plutarch presses on. I'm really not sure where he is going with this, which drives me to speak.

"It's fake, just like their entire relationship." The head gamemaker's eyes brighten. Apparently I said the right thing.

"Precisely," he says, "and what do you think the Capitol thinks of it?"

"If they look up from their plates long enough to notice, they'll think it's love." Plutarch smiles at my remark again; I'm not sure why. I'm not trying to agree with him, I'm trying to voice how ridiculous his plan is. "But that—"

"But what do the districts think of it?" Plutarch interrupts.

This makes me pause. I don't really have an answer to that question. There has probably been talk, but I never leave my house long enough to notice anything going on in district 5. They don't bother me and I don't bother them. It is how I've always functioned back home since the Games.

Luckily, I don't need to know, because Finnick—who I had almost forgotten was in the room—speaks. "There isn't much of it, being a wealthier district," he says, "but there have been some protests in 4. I assume things are worse in the other districts."

Despite the much larger problem at hand, I inwardly scoff at the gorgeous victor. What would he know about the other districts? In fact, I'm surprised he even knows what state his own district is in, being in the Capitol so often.

But it does make sense. Districts are likely doing anything they can to rebel against the Capitol. Katniss gave them hope that day when she almost ate those berries, I realize. I am never forced to watch the Games—after what happened when watching the recaps of my own Games—but when I had heard about the whole thing, I smirked a little, raising my eyebrows in surprise at the fact that there were now two victors.

How fragile the Hunger Games has become, if all of the rules are changed just to have a victor. The whole thing, started to punish the rebellious districts, are no more than entertainment now. It was more important to Seneca Crane to have a victor than to kill any rebellion he saw. A person with any sense would have let them die then and there. But now Seneca Crane is dead. And the districts are angry. They are sending two of their children every year, and for what? To entertain the Capitol.

Come to think of it, it's kind of making me mad, too.

"But how does this all fit in with your plan?" I hear Sam say, tearing me out of my thoughts. I cough nervously and look up at Plutarch expectantly.

Plutarch, no surprise, is smiling. The fact that he always does this, while a bit unnerving, is actually beginning to comfort me. He seems way too excited about this whole rebellion to be faking it.

"Because," he explains, "how do you think the districts will respond when Waverly Mongelle and Sam Ivory—two victors, one of which killed the other's brother—announce that they have plans to marry? When they say they were inspired by Katniss Everdeen to do so?"

After a few seconds of silence, Finnick says, "they'll take it as a sign of rebellion." There is awe in his voice, as if he was in some sort of revelation. And, almost against my will, I can begin to see what Plutarch is trying to show me.

I look at it from the districts' point of view. They have just witnessed the crowning of two victors for the first time in Panem history. Not out of some change of heart or act of compassion on the part of the Capitol, but because of a young girl with a handful of berries. Change is happening. What would they think if two victors from separate districts—victors that are supposed to hate each other—declare their engagement?

Even I have to admit that it is an impressive plan. The districts would see it as rebellion. They would see it as a smack in the face of the Capitol; as a way of placing any anger at the other person on the Capitol and the Hunger Games. But most importantly, they would see it as unity. Not only would two districts be united against the Capitol, but a career district and a poor one that can barely rake up enough victors to mentor.

The whole thing was maddeningly brilliant. Plutarch clearly put much thought into it. If performed correctly, it could very well start a revolution.

But I still don't like it.

"It's genius," Sam says in disbelief, possibly having the same epiphany as I am. I send him a half-hearted glare, because it _was _genius. And I hated it for being genius. This is the person that killed my brother! And I _do_ blame him for it!

Of course, deep down, I know that isn't true either.

"And what about President Snow?" I stammer, in an effort to find some reason why this plan will fail, "you don't honestly expect him to not see all of this happening, do you?"

"President Snow," says Plutarch, "is a very…impressionable leader, I have learned." Before I can even ask what he means by that, he continues. "All we have to do is paint a picture that he will want to see. Give him some details, not all of them. Convince him that he is not only okay with the wedding, but that he wants it."

"And how do we do that?" Sam asks. I try not to notice the interest in his voice, silently clenching my fists.

"I'll tell him it's a distraction," Plutarch says, "that it pulls the districts' attention away from the rebellious actions at the Hunger Games of last year. Tell him that it shows the Hunger Games bringing the two of you together."

And there it is. Plutarch has gone and added a completely different viewpoint on this said wedding. I can see it now, the picture he paints for Snow. He shows two still very young victors of the Hunger Games who, although they have every reason to hate each other, found love through the Games. And what inspired the marriage? The "love" that Peeta and Katniss displayed for each other with the berries. Make everything about the marriage: how happy the couple was, how grateful to the Capitol, whatever Plutarch would need to say to convince Snow.

Would President Snow believe that the new marriage was out of love? It wouldn't matter. Not to him. All he would care about was discouraging the districts from rebellion. And if he believed he could do so through the wedding, he would do it. And all the while, the districts would be growing in strength, and the rebellion would grow. And by the time Snow noticed, he could do nothing to stop it.

The Capitol didn't even need considered. They believe anything they see, and this would be no different. It would be all they could talk about for weeks. Of course they would see it as love.

Brilliant. The whole plan was brilliant. Once again… Fantastic.

"Of course," Plutarch continues, "you would have to work much harder to convince than Katniss and Peeta. They are only trying to protect themselves. You two would be starting a rebellion while trying to hide it from Snow. You'll have to tread carefully with everything you say."

He's right of course. It would be about as dangerous as dancing on a mine field. If you step in one wrong place, if you say one thing wrong, the whole thing explodes. Either President Snow catches us and kills us all, or we don't say enough and the districts see us as two spoiled victors who can get whatever they want, whenever they want it.

"Miss Everdeen has started the fire," Plutarch says, "It is our job to add the fuel to make it stronger." Suddenly I realize he is looking at me. "Will you be that fuel?"

It feels as if my entire being is splitting itself in two. Everything in my heart and whatever soul I have left is telling me no. I can't. This is the person who killed Cory! How could I ever pretend to love someone I hate? But at the same time, everything in my brain knows that the plan is genius, and very achievable.

Then, a thought occurs to me, saving me from answering.

"How do you fake a marriage?" I demand, but weakly, as if I've already accepted the fact that he'll have a response to this as well. "It's impossible to fake something like that."

But, just like everything, Plutarch has a solution. "The marriage will take place in the Capitol," he says, "with all Capitol wedding traditions. There will be no District 5 ceremonies. The same goes for Sam's district."

"So?" I say stubbornly.

"So," Plutarch continues, "from what I understand, District 5 has distinct wedding traditions, just like any other district."

"Yes," I drone impatiently. Of course our traditions are different. Actually, the Capitol might be repulsed with District 5's traditions. Though our brides usually just wear simple dresses, maybe white, depending on how much you can afford to spend, weddings are very important at home. Maybe because we have so few of them.

Our most popular wedding tradition, commonly referred to as "the prick," dates back to many years before I was born, at the old mayor's wedding. His fiancée had pricked her finger on a pin that was hemming up her wedding dress just before the wedding. On seeing her bleeding finger during the ceremony, the mayor pricked his own finger and took her hand, declaring that he had sworn his love to her in blood. After that, many young couples began to prick themselves during their weddings, and the prick was soon seen as a symbol of romance and love. No District 5 wedding would be complete without it.

Then it hits me. No District 5 wedding would be complete without it.

"So…it won't be a real wedding," I murmur.

"Exactly," Plutarch smiles. Then, turning both to me and Sam, who has been silent for the most part and whose face is unreadable, he says, "So, what will it be? Will you be part of it?"

"I'll do it," Sam says, surprising me. He turns to me, as if with a question on his lips, but seems to be addressing Plutarch as he says, "It can be the difference between revolution and seventy-five more Hunger Games… I'm willing to do what it takes."

I know he probably doesn't mean it, but the way he says it almost implies a dare. Who can do more for revolution? I narrow my eyes at him, not exactly glaring, but definitely not friendly.

"Well, Miss Mongelle," Plutarch says, "What will it be?"

_No._

"I'll do it."

Hours later, I still won't know why I agreed.

**A/N:**

**Yay! This chapter was easy to write! (If you've never read my writing before, that's a reeeeally good sign). This also means… duh-duh… The slow chapters are over! (For now. And hopefully for a while).**

**Sugar cubes if you review!**


	6. Just another act

**A/N:**

**Sugar cubes to sissymac for your amazing review! **

**I told you it was a good thing when the chapters become easy to write, didn't I? Two chapters in two days! You can thank the foot of snow outside my house. Yay to snow days!**

Plutarch explains to us that the announcement to our "secret engagement" will be announced at the Quarter Quell ball. It makes me groan a little, because I'm sure if it weren't for the plan I might have been able to convince the Capitol not to make me go. But I guess I should have seen this coming. I might as well get used to the attention now, because once the word spreads, the cameras aren't going to leave me alone.

The Quarter Quell ball is another punishment to the districts. Like the name implies, it takes place before every Quarter Quell, consisting of all the previous victors to the Games. And, because it is a Capitol event, it's beyond extravagant. There has never been one during my lifetime, but there was just a year before my mother conceived me. From what I've heard, it's the event of the year for Capitol citizens. They pay enough money to feed half the districts to get in.

But the part that truly makes it a punishment to the districts is the broadcasting. Just like the Hunger Games, it is broadcasted live to all the districts of Panem, and they are forced to watch it. It's almost as sick as the Games themselves. Forcing the families of fallen tributes to watch as the people that killed their children celebrate their victories, celebrate the deaths they caused. I despise the idea of it, and I'm attending.

"After the party is over," explains Plutarch, "You will each go home to your separate districts. I will most likely have a meeting with President Snow on what to do about this the next day. Depending on how long it takes to convince him will decide things."

"How will we know when you've convinced him?" I ask.

"Because then the interview will start being authorized," he says, "And President Snow will likely address Panem on the wedding, since no one has ever done anything like this before."

"He'll want to show that the victors are special," Sam mutters, thinking. "That they belong to the Capitol."

"But in doing this, you'll show that your loyalties are with the districts." Finnick grins as he says it. "Plutarch, you are a genius."

"But none of this will work if you two don't pull it off," he repeats, looking from me to Sam and back, "If you don't convince President Snow that you are without a doubt in love, this will be for nothing. Can you do that?"

Good question. _Can _I do that? I'm great at putting on an act—God knows I've done it often enough—but can I really pretend to be in love with my enemy? The guy whose face I pictured on the side of the house for years while throwing knives? The guy I just tried to kill?

"We can do it," Sam says confidently, answering for the both of us. I want to give him a glare out of principle, but that wouldn't exactly convince them.

"Of course we can," I say with a snort, as if it's the most ridiculous question I can fathom, "I just can't wait to see the look on the president's face when he finds out."

Though I can't ignore the fact that Sam is looking at me curiously, I try to act like I don't notice. The features in Plutarch's face relax, but only slightly. I still haven't entirely convinced him.

"It's important that we do this right," he says, "It's not just you Snow will go after if he feels reason to."

"I know that," I reply with an edge of coldness to my voice. I knew what was at stake when I agreed to the plan. Snow is a killer. He wouldn't just kill me, because that would be too easy. He goes after the people you love. He would go after Mima.

I would never let that happen. Mima might not be much, compared to the number of people other people love, but she is all I have. After Cory died, she was the only one there for me. My mother died when I was still a baby, and my father left after I got reaped for the Hunger Games. I am all Mima has and vice versa. I would never let Snow hurt her.

Plutarch discusses other minor details for a while, and I endure it with tired endurance. Most of the things he is telling us are things I already know. My prep team will come and prepare my hair and makeup, I'll be escorted to a train with the other victors, and I'll be taken to the party. But there was one thing I didn't plan for.

"While you three are at the party," Plutarch is saying, "Try and make friends with Katniss Everdeen." There is something about the way he says it that I don't like. As if we're doing it on precaution, _in case _something were too happen. His eyes hold secrets, bleak future events that I can't yet see.

"Why?" I ask, hoping to snap him out of it, or if not, get information out of him.

"Just in case," he murmurs, and before I can ask what he means by that, he stands to his feet.

"Well," he says, "you should all be going, before suspicions are raised."

I'm not completely satisfied with his response, but I don't argue. It's been a long day, and since it's getting closer to winter, the sky is already darkening. Right now, all I really want is the comforting solitude at home, the one place where I don't have to pretend. It's exhausting keeping up an act for so long.

Sam stands up as well, though I'm not sure why, since we're still in District 5. He follows me out of the room with that strange, unreadable expression that seems to be permanently on his face around me.

"It was nice to meet you, Waverly Mongelle," he says, which sounds incredibly ridiculous since we're supposedly engaged now.

"Yeah, well, I wish I could say the same." I brush him off coldly as I continue to walk toward the front of the hovercraft.

He is unfazed, even laughing. "You're just like he said you were."

I freeze, slowly looking him in the eyes.

"Cory, I mean," Sam clarifies, though he really doesn't need to. Of course I know who he meant. A serious look has cast itself over his face. I feel the anger start to creep over me.

"What do you know about my brother?" I demand darkly, leaving no room for a response. Because he doesn't know anything about him.

Sam makes room anyway, replying, "I know that he was a good man…a caring brother. I know that he should have won the Games instead of me." He digs into his pocket, pulling out a long gold chain.

I can't believe my eyes.

Sam offers the necklace to me, but when he sees that my numb hands are unable to take it, he picks up my hand and clasps it inside for me.

"He told me to give that to you if I won," he says simply, laughing again. "I don't know how he knew… But I've been keeping it for years." He gives me a genuine smile, squeezing my stiff shoulder before leaving.

He just gave me my brother's token in the Hunger Games.

I open the door to my house softly, in an effort not to wake Mima. I had left the hovercraft a while ago, but had afterwards wandered around the deserted streets, trying but not succeeding in trying to fathom what had just taken place.

My efforts were wasted. The door had barely closed behind me when the small frame of my grandmother sped into view from the living room. Her hair is matted and unkempt; she is ringing her hands nervously. She was clearly waiting for hours for my return.

"There you are!" she exclaims in relief. "I've been waiting for hours! I was worried something had happened, and you never go off without saying anything, and—"

"I'm sorry, Mima," I barely squeak out. Already I can feel the shattered fragments of my mask dissolving into nothingness. Any attempt at an excuse I was going to attempt to make vanished as soon as I saw her face.

Mima is surprised. She doesn't even scold me for saying "sorry" to her. I don't blame her. She never hears me sound so vulnerable and weak, except maybe when I cry out in my sleep. But when I'm awake, I never show any emotion. It's what keeps me together.

"Waverly," Mima says, resting her gentle, bony hand upon my face. "Waverly, is everything alright?"

That's when I lose it.

"Mima!" I sob, throwing my arms around her. She jolts a little at my touch, and once again I don't blame her. I've never been a hugger, and after the Games I barely touch anyone if I can avoid it.

The Games. It's always about the Games. I sob even more.

"I'm sorry, Mima!" I weep, "I'm sorry!"

"Darling, what is wrong?" Mima asks, leading me over to the couch. I barely have the energy to allow her to set me down, and I never let go of her. I can't, or I'll shatter. The most I can do to respond is a slight shake of my head, saying I don't want to talk about it.

"Sweetheart, what's…?" She trails off mid-sentence when she sees the necklace I'm clinging to desperately in my hands. "Wave," she whispers, barely daring to believe what her eyes are telling her, "Is that…?"

"Y-yes," I can barely stammer out through my tears. Mima looks into my eyes, unasked questions trailing on the edge of her lips. But one look at my pain-filled face changes her mind, and she resolves to leave them for another time. Instead she pulls me back into her embrace, and I sob even more, because it's such a loving gesture that only Mima could accomplish. Only she knows me; she knows me more than I know myself.

I want to say it. Three little words keep reaching up out of my throat, only to be dragged back down. I'm trying so hard to express them, to let her know, but it's as if my body just won't let me. The three words that Mima deserves to hear more than anyone.

I love… I…

I can't even think the words, which makes me cry even harder. Instead I stick to much easier words to say, which also cannot be said enough to my grandmother.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Mima." _I'm sorry that you deserve so much better._

"I'm sorry…" _I'm sorry that you're stuck with me._

"I'm sorry…" _I'm sorry that I can't even tell you what just happened._

"I'm sorry…" _I'm sorry that it was me that won the Hunger Games, not Cory._

"I'm sorry, Mima…" _I'm sorry that I need you._

Eventually I trail off into shuddering breaths. Mima says nothing, just rocking me back and forth. She doesn't say what she wants to say, because I already know. _You don't need to apologize, Waverly._ Except she's wrong. I couldn't possibly apologize enough to her.

"You should get some rest," she says after a while, peeling my selfish hands from her fragile body. As she pulls back, I see that there are tears in her eyes. They make me want to cry even more, but I've lost all the energy to.

_I'm sorry for that, too, Mima._

I finally just nod, numbly standing to my feet to head to my bedroom. Mima doesn't follow, because she knows I want to be alone, where I can put the mask back on. It's easier when I'm alone. In front of Mima, I can't help but let my emotions flood. By myself, I can at least pretend.

Pretending. My life is just a game of pretending.

I lay down in my bed, drowning in blankets, and wrestle with sleep as I try desperately to allow it to overtake me. My hands clutch tightly to the necklace that I haven't set down since it was given to me. I wait impatiently for sleep, but it's hard to find comfort in escaping one nightmare when you know you'll just find another.

**A/N:**

**That…was a really sad chapter for me to write. That seems to happen to me a lot. But don't worry, next chapter will be much less depressing, I promise. Pleeeease review. Or don't. (Just kidding. DO.)**


	7. One and Only

**A/N:**

***squeals* Thank you so much to Stephanie310, Angel, x-shutter-bug-x, and hellokatie123 for your wonderful reviews! They made my day! Much sugar cubes and love! **

**Unbelievable! Y'all convinced me to write a chapter for the third day in a row! Hope you enjoy! **

Two days later, Mima woke me from a screaming fit during yet another nightmare, something about being chased by careers through the woods. It wasn't the worst one I've ever had, but being saved from it was a blessing.

Until I remember what today is.

"Sorry," I mumble to my grandmother, kicking my legs over the side of the bed.

Mima smiles at me, but it looks forced. That can only mean one thing.

"They're here, aren't they," I say dully, an observation rather than a question. Mima laughs a little, nervously. The Capitol people always make her nervous when they come around here. Not only do they have more money than all of the district combined, but there's also always the possibility of my… maiming them.

"The prep team is downstairs," Mima says, but from the look on her face, I can tell that she isn't telling me the whole of it.

My eyes widen. "No," I say, "Don't tell me _she's_ here."

But before she can even reply, the door bursts open, and in walks Yula Matalan.

Forcing a smile, I say in as excited a tone I can muster, "Yula… I didn't know you would be here…"

Yula, finding me, grins a large white grin. I look my previous escort over. In a lot of ways, she has changed. At the same time, she hasn't changed at all. Her skin is different, I notice. A bright turquoise, rather than that awful orange from last time I saw her. Her hair, however, is an awful shade of light pink. Her dress has absolutely no relation to either the hair or skin, it seems: a dark, tiger striped orange that in no way match anything.

Seriously? Do people in the Capitol really dress like that?

"Oh, Waverly!" Yula chirps in an annoyingly high voice, practically yanking me up from the bed with her surprisingly strong grip and forcing me into an embrace. When she pulls back, her odd bluish eyes look critically over me, and she clucks disapprovingly. "My, your prep team is going to have a long day ahead of them." Turning back into the hall, she calls: "Jenily! Polian! Toria! Come on up!"

Before I can even offer a sarcastic response, the three pile into my room, which is really too small for so many people. A variety of vibrant colors unknown to District 5, I've always thought of my prep team as a human zoo.

Polian is probably the strangest one out of the three of them. He basically swears by feathers. Never have I seen him before without his being completely covered in them. His skin is and always has been a light orange, not as horrendous as Yula's, but fairly close. Today he is wearing a blue assortment with what looks like peacock feathers covering his sleeves and creating his coattails. I like to call him the Parrot.

Toria is odd looking too. She looks, in every way, like a cat. If there were such a thing as a cat and human hybrid, Toria would probably be the outcome. She styles her hair so that it puffs out in every direction, and always wears cat ears that I assume are fake but look very real, and are always in a different color. Her face she got pulled and stretched so much that it resembles the facial structure of a feline. The dark makeup she always wears around her eyes, combined with the yellow contacts she wears, make her eyes look eerily similar to a cat's. Her skin isn't exactly dyed, but is so milky white that it can't be natural. And her nails, sharpened to resemble claws.

And then there is Jenily. I suppose she is the one I like the most, though to be honest, I only tolerate any of them. She has something the rest of the prep team (and the rest of the Capitol, for that matter) seem to be missing: common sense. I have never seen her make a foolish mistake in all the time I have known her.

However, that doesn't make her fashion choices any less questionable. Though it doesn't look like she is trying to imitate an animal in any way, she is odd just the same. She always wears black dresses that are tight fitting around the chest with hugely bulging sleeves. The dress hugs her extremely thin figure, then, just below her bodice and around her waist, poofs back out again. It isn't very flattering to her skinny frame and small breasts in any way. Nor are the huge, different colored hats she always wears to accompany these dresses. Her hair is bright red, but different than mine, because hers is clearly dyed.

After many quick embraces, the Human Zoo looks me over, frowning.

"Well, at least she'll be the one face we work with today that doesn't have wrinkles," Polian says brightly, "You look…" He frowns again, looking over my poor district body for something good to say.

"Well, we can work with you at least," Jenily finishes cheerily. I roll my eyes. Already, I would rather be back in the Games than with these three, and it's been at most five minutes.

"Well, let's hurry along," Yula prompts, pushing me towards the door. "Say goodbye to your grandmother."

Not that I can say much of anything, when I'm surrounded by a bright, multi-colored tornado parading me towards the front door. But as the door is being opened and they are tugging me outside, I manage to flash a slightly faked smile at Mima, who had followed us quietly through the house.

"Bye, Mima!" I say as cheerily as I can, "I'll see you tomorrow!"

"Stay out of trouble," she teases just before the door shuts. And then it hits me. Next time she sees me, I'll be an engaged woman to the person that killed my brother and her grandson. My heart clenches uncomfortably.

Well, at least it makes spending the afternoon with my prep team slightly bearable in comparison.

On the train taking us to the Capitol, I see the other four people from my district. The woman, my former mentor, is sitting quietly at the window, as far from the rest of us as possible. At a table, the two elderly men are making small conversation, laughing every once in a while as if very close friends (which they might be, considering how long the two of them have been living in the Victor's Village compared to the rest of us). The man with the two children and the infant sits nearby, adding to the discussion sometimes, but mostly staying quiet. All of them except the woman look up when I walk in.

"Mr. Harris, why don't you come with us first?" Jenily cheerily suggests, probably wanting to get the older faces out of the way first.

Sure enough, one of the elderly men stands warily to his feet with a sigh. He mutters something under his breath that seems to quiet to hear, but the man next to him snickers at it. I think his name is Marble.

After the elderly man is escorted from the room, where he will be prepped for the party, the rest of us are left alone. Now that Marble is left unaccompanied by his friend, he mostly just drinks from his glass of water, twirling his cane around in his hands. The man tries to engage in conversation with him a few times, but Marble mostly just grunts in response. Since he doesn't really seem in the mood for chat, and I'd rather not try and make friends with the other crazy person on the train, I decide to sit with the man.

"Mind if I join you, Mister…uh…" I trail off, realizing that I never did figure out his name.

The man smiles warmly, beckoning me to sit. "Pike," he says, "Thatcher Pike. But you can just call me Thatcher. We're all victors here."

"Yeah, I guess we are," I say, shifting uncomfortably at the word.

I force myself into conversation with Thatcher. He is an extremely nice man, whose face always brightens considerably when his kids or wife come into conversation. I learn a lot about him, including his kids' names: Tristan, Orian, and Breilly, Breilly being the infant boy and Tristan being his eldest and only daughter. He is very loving when he speaks of them, but I can't help but wonder. How could anyone go through the Hunger Games and decide to have kids that might be thrown into the same ordeal?

Thatcher also teaches me about the other two. The elderly man is named Marble Oliver, and the other man Baker Harris has been his best and closest friend since childhood. Baker won his Games first, but only because he volunteered as tribute for Marble. Ironically, the next year Marble volunteered as well, because his love had gotten picked for the girls. Her name was Annabel, and she died. Marble has never married since.

Willa Braxton is interesting. She is the woman who sits at the window, constantly fidgeting and never speaking. The Games really took its toll on her. Although she is still a fairly young woman, in her thirties or so, she looks much older. Her eyes hold knowledge of the world far beyond her years. Thatcher says she killed one of her allies in the arena, but I wouldn't call it killing. Her partner, a girl from twelve, had gotten impaled by a knife with slow-acting poison on it. Willa took her life because letting her die would be too painful for the girl. She was the one and only person Willa killed in the arena, and she hasn't been the same since.

I am the last one to be called in for prep. Baker comes back fairly quickly, as does Marble. Thatcher takes a while longer, probably because he is still a handsome man, although nearing his forties. They probably think they can still work with him, unlike the two old men that they barely tried with, although, both Baker and Marble still look nice and clean at least. Willa takes a decent amount of time, though not nearly as long as it takes Thatcher. Knowing the prep team, they probably wanted to rid themselves of her haunting face as quickly as possible.

"Oh, I've never been so happy to see your face before!" Toria exclaims when I walk into the makeshift dressing room. She pinches my cheek with her long cat claws. "Some of these other victors make you look like Finnick Odair himself!"

"And that's saying something," Polian mutters, picking up a strand of my hair in distaste. "Because we've got a job ahead of us."

For the next hour, they bring me to "beauty base zero" while filling the air with their chattering. They wash my hair, dry it, and brush it out until it's shining red. They clip my nails to perfectly shaped ovals, and they make absolutely certain that my skin is flawless. Everything is going fine, until they start to strip me down for the dressing part.

Jenily sees the flash of gold as I remove my jacket, and before I can even say anything to stop her, she snatches it in her hand. "Now, what is this?" she asks curiously.

"Don't touch it!" I shout, lunging forward to grab it, but she neatly evades me, staring at the necklace as if entranced.

"'To my One and Only,'" she reads, looking at the back "'Love and Yours forever, Jeneviva.'" Then she turns it over, where I know she will find the symbol of my mother's love, a tidal wave crashing over the shore. Toria and Polian crowd around to take a look.

"Oh, is this your father's necklace?" Toria squeals, "How romantic!"

"He's not my father anymore," I mumble in reply. There is no bitterness in my voice; I am simply stating a fact. I don't feel anything towards the person originally intended to wear the necklace. Now, I only think of it as my brother's token to the Games.

A token that Sam Ivory returned to me.

I try not to think about him, and obediently allow the prep team to finish my hair, makeup and dress once they return the item to my possession. The next hour passes slowly.

"And, done!" I sigh in relief when Jenily says this. The three of them look me over, grin, and turn me toward the full body mirror. I have to say, I am actually astonished by what I see.

They have me in a gold dress, tightly fitting around the chest but flowing below the waist, where it stops just around my knees. It's simple, and yet elegant and mature, the color of a lightning bolt. My necklace, gold as it is, has been allowed to accompany the outfit. My hair has been pulled up with extravagant red curls, barely touching my shoulders, leaving just one curl falling in front of my face. The makeup adds to the whole effect of a lightning bolt, with smoky edges that resemble storm clouds. I look beautiful, and I represent my district perfectly.

But before I can even say anything, the train stops and Yula rushes in.

"Come, come!" she says, "We have arrived!"

I can feel the blood drain from my face. This was it. We were at President Snow's house and by the end of the night, the world would believe that I am engaged to Sam Ivory. Once I step out of this train, there is no turning back.

Gulping nervously, I follow after Yula.

**A/N:**

**Reviews make me a happy person :). You guys are the best!**


	8. Quarter Quell ball

**A/N:**

**UGH. Wow this week has sucked. Let's just say I could really use a hug :(. I wanted to update sooner, but I've been…busy. Thank you for your patience and I apologize in advance if this chapter sucks. I tried, honestly!**

The party is exactly how I knew it would be. Cameras surround the house, with reporters all over announcing the arrivals of the different victors. The richest of the rich are standing outside, getting their pictures taken with their favorite victors, drinking champagne from small, sparkling glasses, laughing their shrill Capitol laughs.

"Miss Mongelle," Yula hisses disapprovingly from under her too-wide grin, "there are cameras. Don't let me catch you frowning."

I roll my eyes. I'm the only one she snaps at about smiling, although, when I look at the other District 5 victors, I see that I am not the only one. Both Marble and Baker look incredibly annoyed to be there, snickering at the ridiculous Capitol outfits when they aren't muttering irritable remarks that only they can hear. Despite my nerves, I have to smile at them. All these years, and their friendship hasn't even begun to fade. Granted, they aren't terribly kind to anyone else, but it is still a sweet sight to behold.

Willa looks absolutely petrified to be here, jerking her head from side to side and shaking uncontrollably. She basically is feeling just as I am, but I'm just better at hiding my emotions.

After enduring an absurd amount of pictures, I am ushered into the house.

"Smile and make friends!" Yula hisses under her breath before leaving to join her Capitol friends. Again I roll my eyes.

Looking around, I don't recognize anyone. It isn't a surprise, considering how little attention I pay to the Games. But actually, I don't see many victors at all. Mostly just members of the Capitol. And nowhere do I see…

"Looking for someone?"

Somehow I manage not to let my surprise show as I turn around to face Sam. I raise an eyebrow, as if more or less bored. "Yeah," I say, "You're late. I've been waiting."

Sam grins, probably excited that I've finally stopped glaring at him. Not that I could even if I wanted to, when surrounded by so many cameras. I take a moment to glance over him. He is wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath. While extremely simple, I have to admit that it suits him. It's much easier to picture him wearing a plain suit than some extravagant Capitol ensemble. I can't deny that he looks handsome, but I don't dwell on it. All I can think about when I look at him is how Mima is going to react to the announcement tonight.

"Well, shall we?" he says, taking my hand.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, my cheeks burning. He wasn't seriously considering saying anything already, was he?

Sam laughs, seeing my genuinely panicking expression. "Dancing," he says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "Isn't that what engaged couples would do?"

Glaring at him, I whisper, "They don't know about that yet."

"True," he replies, "So dance with me for fun."

"Fun?" I repeat, incredulous. Does he take anything seriously?

"Sure," he grins, taking me by the hand over to the dance floor, "After all, I barely even know you and we're engaged." He guides my hands to his shoulders, and I begrudgingly allow it. Already, the stares of shocked Capitol citizens are burning holes into my head and I feel myself flush.

"I wish you wouldn't say that," I whisper as the dance begins, though I doubt anyone is paying much attention.

Sam shrugs. "No use pretending any differently. If they're going to believe it, we might as well act like it." He pretends to look me over. "Well, if I had to get fake-married to somebody, I probably couldn't have chosen a prettier one."

I roll my eyes. Did he ever quit the whole Prince Charming act? I'd ask him as much but he'd probably take that as me calling him charming. Instead, I just let the comment drop, letting my eyes look anywhere but at the person in front of me. Which just so happens to be Marble and Baker. Capitol citizens are looking at them distastefully, but they don't seem to care at all. And from the occasional gasps of horror I hear from the people surrounding them, they are taking every possible opportunity to appall them. I smile, thinking that I am starting to like them.

"So you're wearing the necklace."

I jolt out of my thoughts at the observation. For some reason I can feel a blush coming over my face annoyingly, though it shouldn't be. It's my brother's tribute token. Why wouldn't I wear it? But I still find it hard to look Sam in the eyes.

"Yes," I manage to reply casually, "It's a wonder that my prep team allowed it."

"I don't think so," Sam disagrees with a grin, "I think it suits you." Not knowing what to say in response, I don't say anything. He takes this as his cue to continue, saying, "You really are just like he said."

"So you've said before," I note with a tinge of annoyance, "Although I don't know how you could possibly know that, when you don't know me." _When I don't know who I am myself._

"I don't know either," he replies, as if in fascination over this simple fact, "But so far you've been just how he said you were."

Flashes of that awful Hunger Games suddenly race through my mind: the ticking of the clock, the cannon signaling the start of it, Cory running through the forest, meeting Sam, allying with him. I close my eyes in an attempt to block them away. "Oh?" I say. "And what did he say?" _Before you killed him._

"He said…" Sam pauses. When I look at him, he is staring off into space, nowhere in particular. "He said that you were caring."

I cut him off right there with a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, definitely," I say, "And when did you realize that he was right? Was it before or after I tried to kill you?"

"Actually," he says, turning his dark brown eyes back to me, "It was when I saw you smile at those two old men over there."

"How did you know it was the old men?" I ask, my astonishment momentarily overwhelming my constant irritation at him.

"Well, it was either them or the herd of Capitol people surrounding them," he says with yet another grin, "I thought the choice was pretty obvious." I can't help myself. I laugh. Which prods him into continuing his list by saying, "He also said that you were rebellious… I really didn't have to try too hard to see that _that _was true."

"Any other words of wisdom from my brother?" I say, already feeling the annoyance towards Sam begin to creep up again.

"Well, there was one other thing."

"And what was that?"

Suddenly Sam comes to a halt, abruptly ending the dance. My body reacts just the smallest bit too slowly to the unexpected stop, which causes me to fall forward. Much to my irritation, this causes me to tighten my grip on Sam's shoulders, and his on my hips. My embarrassment does not go unseen by him, causing his grin to widen as the heat floods my face.

"He said," Sam continues as if the incident had not just happened, though the smirk on his face suggests otherwise, "He said that you are fearless."

Before I can even question this strange attribute that was apparently given to me—I certainly wasn't fearless, that was for sure—Sam has straightened himself up, removing his hands from my waist. For the first time I realize that the music has stopped playing. I hadn't even heard it begin. To cover up the awkwardness of the moment, I look around us.

To my amazement, it seems that every eye within a twenty foot radius of us seems to be staring. Some look shocked; others are whispering and casting their prying eyes over; others still are giggling, probably already spreading rumors about the crazy victor from District 5. Even worse, I see a camera pointed in our direction, and my heart sinks. What if Mima was watching this right now? What would she think?

"This is terrible," I hear myself moan in despair, to no one in particular, "Look at them all." Sam turns me back towards him, and for a moment I allow it, before remembering the cameras again and turning back away. Pictures of Mima, shocked face and tears in her eyes, flood my brain like the plague.

"Don't think about them." I jump a bit, not having seen how close Sam had gotten to me. He had to bend over some, as he is a few inches taller than I am, but in addition to his leaning down and my heels pushing me up, he was close enough to whisper in my ear. I open my mouth to reprimand him for it, but all that come out are shivers. My eyes never leave those cold, black cameras.

"Waverly," Sam is saying, "Don't think about them."

It is impossible for me not to think about them. Their judgmental gazes never leave me, and when one does it is quickly replaced by another. Panic is taking over me, my heart pounding against my chest. I am having a nightmare, except this one I can't escape from.

"Waverly." Sam is kind of shaking me at this point, trying to be gentle as not to catch anyone's attention, but firm enough to grab a hold of my senses. Finally, and I'm not sure how, he succeeds, and I look over at him. To my surprise, I see not a smirk on his face, but what looks like genuine worry. "Are you okay?" he asks gently.

"Of course I am," I mumble. It's not even convincing to me, so I quickly add a laugh that sounds forced.

Sam, at least, has the courtesy to pretend he believes me, giving me a smile that looks a lot more sincere than mine. So far I haven't been grateful for many things that he has done in the short time I have actually known him, but for this I am. He nods at something behind me and says, "Well, in that case, I think there are two people we should get to know."

I turn around, to see who he is referring to. It isn't that hard to figure out, because Katniss and Peeta are fairly easy to spot. Katniss is wearing a dark red dress and Peeta is dressed in a suit that kind of looks like the color of ash. They both look completely lost, surrounded by so many Capitol citizens.

Gulping, I look at Sam nervously. "What do we…?"

Sensing my discomfort, he says, "Just follow my lead."

I'm still hesitant, but eventually I nod. He gently puts a hand on the small of my back. I tense at first, unsure of the reason for the gesture. Is it because he sees my feet's apparent inability to move, or is it because of the act?

Either way, together, we walk over to personally meet the faces of the rebellion.

**A/N:**

**Yeah, I know this chapter is a bit on the short side. I just feel like the rest of what happens deserves its own chapter. Thank you to all the lovely people who favorited, followed, and reviewed! It's supposed to snow again tomorrow so I'll probably be able to update soon *fingers crossed***

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Quarter Quell ball part 2

**A/N: **

**Uhh, I definitely didn't start and finish this this morning if that's what you're asking… **

**Thanks to Lola23 for your review!**

"Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

The way Sam says their names holds a sort of companionship in it, as if he has known the famous couple for years, although none of us have ever met. Katniss looks us over, her eyes widening a bit in surprise. She likely recognizes us. It would be hard not to, as the stunt I pulled was the talk of the Capitol after my Games. She is quiet, not saying a word in response. I make a note that she is nothing like the naïve girl I saw in the interviews.

Peeta must sense that Katniss is unwilling to, so he offers a smile to both of us in greeting, even going so far as to shake Sam's extended hand. "Sam Ivory," he says, and then, turning to me, "And Waverly Mongelle. Honor to meet you two."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," Sam replies, perfectly in sync. The two of them are alike, I realize. Both of them always seem to know exactly what to say. And then there is Katniss and I, who I already sense is much like me as well. Neither of us enjoy the limelight much, though we always seem to be trapped in it. I look at Katniss again. She is still staring at me as though surprised.

"I must say," I can hear Sam saying, "You two were…inspirational to us with your Games." My stomach clenches up.

"Inspirational?" repeats Peeta. "How so?"

Katniss is still staring at me. I am unnerved, but at the same time perplexed. Plutarch did tell us to befriend Katniss. With Peeta and Sam around, I'll barely be able to get a word in. So I make a decision.

Plastering a smile unto my face, I put a hand to Sam's shoulder. "Sam," I say sweetly, "It is absolutely too hot in here. Why don't you take Peeta to go get Katniss and I something to drink?" I flicker my eyes just the slightest after making the request, further baffling an already surprised Sam. He gets the message, however, because he turns back to Peeta.

"Well, they're in charge," he says with a clearly rehearsed laugh. Peeta relents, but casts a worried glance at Katniss before leaving. I am bewildered at this strange action. The way he looks at her, it's as if he's afraid he will never see her again. But I try not to dwell on this, and as soon as he is gone, I turn to Katniss.

"Go on, you can say it."

She raises an eyebrow, confused. "Say what?" I shrug.

"Whatever it is that you are thinking."

For a moment, she hesitates, clearly unused to such open speaking. She is looking me over, trying to decide what to make of me, and trying to not be obvious with her glances over at where Peeta is every two seconds. Then she laughs, as if she can't help it.

"I was thinking how much you look like last year's tribute from District 5," she admits, "She had red hair too."

I begin to laugh with her, mostly in relief. Here, I am thinking that her thoughtful gazes meant she was wondering why Sam and I are here together. And all the while, she is thinking how my hair color is similar to a dead girl's.

"Ah, yes," I recall, suddenly much more comfortable with the girl on fire, "Mila Goren."

"That was her name?" Katniss asks with a light laugh. "I always just called her Foxface."

"Foxface?" I repeat with a laugh that is actually real. She is funny, this girl on fire. Most other victors I have spoken to over the years usually brag on the ways they have killed people; here I am talking with the spark of the rebellion, and we're discussing nicknames. And as preferable as this is, I know we should probably talk about other issues.

"So, that was quite an interesting end to the Games you pulled off." The words have barely left my mouth and everything about Katniss tenses. Obviously it is a sensitive topic with her, but I know it's a necessary one. And with Sam momentarily out of sight, it's much easier to do so.

"So I keep getting told," she mumbles in response. Pretending not to notice her discomfort with the subject, I press even further.

"It's definitely been inspirational to some of us victors." The hint I try to drop is probably way larger than necessary, because she begins to look suspicious. So I quickly cover up by looking over at Sam with a shy smile, as if trying to be discreet but failing. Katniss immediately understands—or at least thinks she understands—and her features flood with relief.

"Oh… is that so?" she says, still sounding uncomfortable. It occurs to me for the first time that Snow has probably threatened her severely for her incident at the Games. I realize that any act of rebellion may and will come back to her. Her family, her little sister, anyone who is remotely close to her… they are all what we are risking with this plan.

"For you," Sam says, returning with Peeta and holding out a dainty looking glass filled with a reddish liquid. I stare at it blankly for a moment, and then it's too much.

"Excuse me," I mutter, rushing from the dance floor.

Outside, the air is fresh and cool in my lungs. The door slams shut behind me in my haste to escape the party and I collapse against the wall with a sigh. All around, Capitol citizens are giving me strange looks, some looking down in contempt and others as if watching a rather amusing spectacle. Or both, in some cases. But I couldn't care less.

Not unexpectedly, Sam is quickly behind me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he can even get the words out.

"Don't," I warn breathlessly, "I can't go back in there. I can't do this. It's wrong. We are risking her family and friends. It's wrong."

Sam gazes at me for a moment, curiously. He is trying to figure me out again, I can tell. But I don't want to be figured out. Not by him and not by anyone. I just know that I can't go through with this plan.

"Okay," he concedes, sitting beside me against the wall, "Then we won't do it." Not even bothering to snap at him for sitting next to me, I stare at him incredulously.

"What…that's it?" I say. "No trying to talk me into it?"

He shrugs. "What's the point? If you don't want to do it, you're not going to do it."

This makes me stumble, leaving me at a loss for words. I was expecting protests, arguing, even dragging me back inside. But I was not expecting him to give in so easily, as if the matter were as simple as deciding what to eat for dinner. It confuses me to the point that I don't even know what to think, let alone say. For the first time, I realize that I really have no clue who Sam Ivory is, because I never would have thought he would respond like this.

"Why are you doing this, Sam?" The words leave my mouth before I even think them, my body reacting faster than my brain. "You're from District 2. You have everything you could possibly want." He laughs softly. The distant look has once again returned to his dark eyes.

"I've never liked the Capitol," he mutters quietly. "I wasn't even supposed to volunteer for the Games. I'm no Career."

My eyes widen with the realization. "You mean…you weren't the one chosen to volunteer?"

"No." he laughs again, bitterly. "That's why I teamed up with your brother, you know. I refused to be a part of the Career pack." The usual tenseness comes over me that always happens when Sam speaks about Cory, but I find that this time I am feeling not anger, but interest.

"Why?" I ask curiously. "The Careers are almost always the ones to win."

"Yeah, they do," he agrees, "They band together, kill all the other tributes, and then kill each other. The Capitol's slaves." There is silence for a long minute, each of us thinking about that awful year: the seventy-first Hunger Games.

Laughing again, the bitterness growing with each word he speaks, Sam says, "But I guess I have no room to talk…being one of the Capitol's slaves myself." I say nothing; he continues. "I was so determined. Going into the arena, I swore I was not going to kill anyone. I was determined to win without spilling any of the blood myself. Selfish, I know."

_Not selfish, _I think, _just impossible._ I should know, from my own Games.

"The Hunger Games change you," he goes on, looking suddenly very interested by the grass at his feet. "Everything was different in the arena. Your survival instincts kick in, and suddenly all that matters is that you live to see the next day. I was barely in the arena for an hour before I killed my first victim." He laughs yet again, and it might be the saddest laugh I have ever heard. Then he looks me in the eyes. "Do you remember how your brother saved my life?"

Slowly, I nod. Of course I remembered. While Cory was alive, no one could remove me from the television in the living room; I was so anxious to see what would happen to him. "That guy from 1 attacked you," I say, "He was going to kill you, but Cory came and knocked him out."

"Exactly," Sam says, "he knocked him out. Cory had knives on him; he could have easily killed him. But he chose not to." Another bitter laugh. "He wasn't even trying to win the Games, I think. He was trying to _do_ something." He gets extremely quiet all of a sudden and jerks his eyes away from me, too ashamed to even look me in the eye.

"Your brother saved my life," he says after a while, "And when there was only the two of us left, I killed him..." Slowly, he looks into my eyes again, and all I can see is regret. "I'll never be able to repay him for saving my life…That's why I'm doing this."

I can't speak. I can hardly breathe. I want to say something but I have literally no idea what.

It turns out I don't need to. The door bursts open and Yula rushes out, searching for me in panic. As soon as she finds me, she sighs in relief, not even noticing the fact that I'm sitting next to the very person I'm supposed to hate. Her hair nearly comes undone in her hurry.

"There you are, Waverly!" she says. "Get inside, President Snow is about to address the victors!" before I can even say anything in response, she has rushed back inside.

I swallow, knowing what I am going to do before it happens. I take Sam's hand, a gesture that is rare for me to do with anyone, let alone the person I hated for years. He jolts in surprise, not expecting it. I don't blame him; I don't expect it either, and I am the one that did it.

_It's just for the act, _I tell myself, but I know it isn't. I don't know why I do it, but I do.

"We should go inside now," I say, "Now seems like as good a time as ever to make the announcement."

Sam hesitates for a moment, but then smiles, returning the grip onto my hand. And together we go into the house of the president.

When we walk in, the music has momentarily ceased. Up on the large staircase, I see President Snow, dressed in an expensive looking black suit with a haunting white rose at his lapel. Even from a distance, I can see his piercing blue eyes, able to chill anyone to the bone. All of the cameras are pointed towards him as he makes his customary speech.

"Welcome, victors," his voice echoes through the house. He reminds me of an especially deadly snake, calculating each move before striking. I find myself gripping even more tightly to Sam's arm. "Let each of you congratulate yourselves, on your individual Games where you rose. To fame…and to glory!"

The Capitol citizens immediately erupt in wild applause, but I only sneer in disgust. He is telling us to congratulate ourselves for murder, and back in the districts, families of dead tributes are forced to watch as their children's killers receive the thunderous ovation.

"And in this," Snow continues, "the seventy-fifth year of the Hunger Games, let this be a reminder. A reminder that you are each honored guests of the Capitol!"

"He's trying to turn the districts against the victors," I whisper to Sam.

"Then let's show them whose side we're really on," he whispers back. And then, he is walking forward and I follow in a daze, the two of us still holding hands.

"Yes, we are," Sam calls out. A thousand faces turn to us, including the perplexed face of the president. I try not to look at him, but it's either him or the dozens of cameras pointed at us. All I can do is force a smile as Sam continues. He looks exactly how he should, nodding respectfully to the president and grinning happily at the cameras.

"That is why," he says, "My fiancée," he lifts my hand to his lips, gently kissing it as I try to ignore the rising hysteria in my veins, "Waverly Mongelle, and I, have decided get married here in the Capitol."


	10. Three days after

**A/N:**

***awkward wave* heyyy… I'm back… I wanted to post this chapter yesterday, but I literally fell asleep on my laptop while trying to type it. Sorry this chapter took wayyyyyy longer than I had intended… I have no excuse. Blame Christmas. I can't do anything without having to go to a party or visit relatives or… Just…here. New chapter.**

* * *

The mayhem that follows Sam's announcement is passed in a blur for me. It's as if the entire party has been set into fast forward, but I have been left at normal speed, and can only watch as the world races around me. The only thing anchoring me down to earth is the constant feeling of my hand in Sam's. It isn't much, but it's all I have. So I take it.

There is one thing, however, that repeats clearly in my mind. One of my few pleasures of the night. President Snow's reaction to what Sam said. The way his eyebrows raised just a tad as he tried to take in the words that had been spoken; his jaw slackening just enough to show his surprise when he did; his quick retreat from the festivities afterwards.

"Well…" he had said, once the chattering and squeals of delight had died down enough for him to be heard. "This is certainly a surprise."

"We couldn't think of a better time to make the announcement than here," Sam had replied with a sunny laugh. I had to admit, I was impressed. He was definitely a very convincing actor.

"I offer my congratulations," Snow replied, attempting to cover up his mistake of showing too much emotion. But it was too late. I knew it, and President Snow knew it too. The party was being recorded live. Everyone in the districts have already seen it.

No surprise, the cameras "malfunctioned" soon after, and quickly ceased recording. Snow was gone at this point. Though I hadn't seen Plutarch yet with how large the crowd had grown, I assumed he was with the president, most likely discussing whether or not to kill us.

"Alright, Miss Mongelle," Yula says at last, tottering slightly on her massive heels as she walks towards me with her Capitol friends. I raise an eyebrow at the formal use of my name, but don't comment. Her turquoise face is bright and shining, the latter probably a result of all the alcohol she has been drinking tonight. She looks incredibly pleased; no doubt she has gotten her share of the spotlight as well now that a District 5 victor is at the head of attention. "Come now. It's time to head back to the train."

"Ah, you're taking her from me already?" Sam says right on cue, feigning disappointment. Sending what I am sure Yula thinks is her most dazzling smile, she laughs, and then clucks with fake disapproval. She almost looks like a mother, wagging her finger at us. A very unusual, turquoise mother, but a mother nonetheless.

"Now, I will hear none of that," she chides, puffing her orange lips out. I suppose it was meant to make her look like she was pouting, but all I can picture is a disturbingly bright and colorful fish. She doesn't make it much easier to take her seriously when she attempts to narrow her eyes at me, and they instead become wider (probably from whatever alcohol she has been drinking). Tripping just the tiniest inch, she manages to say, "I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Keeping such a thing from your escort, of all people!"

"Oh, I definitely never meant to disappoint you, Yula," I mutter, not terribly caring anymore as to whether or not they buy my act. It has been a long night, and at this point anything keeping me away from my room on the train is an unwelcome distraction.

Of course, as wobbly as she already is, she doesn't seem to notice my annoyance. She just laughs and pats my shoulder as if we have just shared a terribly amusing joke.

"Oh, you two may have already won the Games, Waverly," she laughs even more, "But you'll be the death of me yet!"

The look of contempt I give her must show my disgust, because I can feel Sam shift uncomfortably from his spot next to me. I don't care, though, sneering, "Is that supposed to be funny?"

Sam jumps in front of me, abruptly cutting off the conversation between Yula and I. It takes everything in my power not to send the iciest glare I possibly can at him for it, but at the same time, I am grateful for the headache he saved me from. Meanwhile, Yula continues to laugh with her other drunken Capitol friends, almost not noticing that I ever said anything.

"Well, I guess it's getting late anyway," he says, purposely speaking just loud enough for the escorts to hear. Not that they are listening in the first place. What do they care what we do when the cameras are gone?

"I guess so," I reply.

For another moment he shifts uncomfortably—something that even I can tell is not common to him—and runs a hand through his thick brown hair, unconsciously biting on the corners of his mouth. I'm too tired to even attempt to comprehend his reasons for doing so, writing it off as simply part of the act.

"So… I'll see you soon, I guess," he says at length.

"If they decide not to kill us," I mutter cryptically.

Giving a short, humorless laugh in which his mouth doesn't even open to do so, Sam shrugs. "Yeah, I guess there's that too."

* * *

I never gave much thought as to how the other District 5 victors would react to the news, or if they would care at all. But I definitely did not expect the reaction I did get when I met them on the train.

Marble and Baker are the first ones I see when I step onto the train. As they had been the entire night, they are discussing something amongst themselves in voices so low that no one could even attempt to hear them. The grins on their faces make them look years younger; I can almost picture the two sixteen year old boys standing together at the reaping of so many years ago. When they see me, both of them freeze their conversation.

Even in my tired state, I pause, curious. They have barely even glanced at me before, let alone stop their whole conversation as soon as I walk in. In fact, I was pretty sure they hadn't even realized there were other District 5 victors besides themselves. But here we are, and for a long, uncomfortable minute, the three of us look at each other. And then Marble does something mind-boggling.

He nods at me, smiling. Shocked by this, I stand frozen for another couple seconds as I attempt to understand what I have just witnessed. If either of them had looked at me earlier, their gaze would have held either annoyance or contempt. But when he smiled at me, there was something else. There was respect.

The moment is over quickly, and the two of them go back to whatever conversation they had been having. Back to pretending I'm not there. Once I finally manage to remove my feet from where they stand, I walk over to the door leading towards where my room for the night is.

I have barely opened the door when Willa runs head-first into me. While I am only a little surprised to see her, she looks absolutely terrified to see me. Her pupils are trembling in her wide eyes and she stumbles backward into the door.

But then she realizes who I am.

Slowly, she uncurls herself from the corner she has thrown herself into, and gently rests a hand on my face. I am speechless, because she hasn't so much as looked at anyone this whole trip. When I had her as my mentor, I had barely even seen her.

Just as fast as she had approached me, she is gone in seconds. I try not to let myself think about it, but I can't help but notice all of these changes. It's clear what it's about. They don't buy the love act. They see the whole engagement as a sign of rebellion. And why should they not? They live in my district. All of them know that I spend all of my time locked up in my home, trying to forget about the Games.

My district believes in me. I feel slightly relieved at this, but not entirely. Because I still have to get the president to believe the act, which will be the biggest challenge of all. And then I have the most dreaded challenge of all: facing Mima about it.

I make sure to hurry to my room, not wanting to accidentally run into anyone else. As soon as the door clicks when I lock it into place, I feel immediately better and sigh with relief.

I'm exhausted, so I start to undress for bed. I feel much better when I finally rid myself of the too-tight dress that I have grown to hate throughout the night. In a closet, I will find, I know, outfits of all different kinds. Twenty, maybe thirty of them. It's sickening that they waste so many clothes when I am only going to be here for the night, and I don't wear any of them. Instead I just slip back into the clothes that I wore on the train. They are simple and smell like home.

I spend most of the night thinking about Mima, and occasionally cry.

* * *

The next morning when we arrive at the station, a good portion of the district is waiting for us. None of them look too happy—it is District 5, after all, any reminder of the Hunger Games is an unwelcome one—but some look faintly curious. We are greeted with faint chatter when the door opens and we step off.

As soon as they see my face, all murmuring dies off. Hundreds of faces stare expectantly at me, awaiting my response. At the same time, I pause, waiting for theirs.

There is hope in their eyes. I can see it plainly. They don't believe the act; they hope it isn't true. They _know_ it isn't true. From the smallest of the children to the oldest of men, all eyes are fixed on me.

I want to say something. I want to give them reassurance that I really am on their side. I want to let them know. And I probably would have, too, if I didn't see the white uniforms surrounding the entire crowd.

My eyes widen slightly, even as I try to hide my true feelings. I can't help but look a little surprised, though. We have peacekeepers in the district, of course, but I don't remember there being so many of them. Each of them are glaring coldly at me, daring me to try something. The message is clear. If I do, all of these people will suffer for it.

I guess the president works faster than I thought.

* * *

The door creaks when I open it, giving away the fact that I am home. I swallow and lick my dry lips. Planning the downfall of the government had not taken me even a minute to agree to. But facing Mima was something else entirely.

"Waverly?" a soft voice calls. It takes every bit of courage I have to walk into the living room.

There she is. Mima, her skin a pale pinkish color. She looks up at me, and whatever she feels about my presence, I can't tell. There are so many different emotions in her eyes, and I can't even distinguish one of them. We stare at each other, in a race to see whose façade will break first.

For the first time, I lose that battle.

"I'm sorry, Mima," I whisper as the tears blur my vision.

Her face softens lovingly, and she opens her arms for an embrace, which I quickly throw myself into. Surprisingly, the tears don't run down my face as I expect them too. I stare blankly at the couch over Mima's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Mima," I repeat.

"You don't need to explain yourself," she murmurs into my ear, "All I've ever wanted is your happiness." Drawing me back, she smiles and looks gently at me. "Do you love him?"

I find no hesitation in lying.

"Yes, Mima." I almost even convince myself with the tenderness I say it with. I don't even question myself for lying. Ever since the train, I've known I would lie to her. If Snow ever questions her, she needs to truly believe that I love Sam.

Mima's whole face lights up, breaking my heart. I don't like lying to her, but if it means saving her life, I must.

_At least she's happy_, I try to convince myself.

"I'm so happy," Mima echoes my thoughts, "So, so happy for you."

Three days later, I get the message that Caesar Flickerman wants to interview Sam and I. Snow is convinced. For now.

**A/N:**

**Wooo! Now the fun part! (For me, anyway. Hopefully for you too). I don't know when I'll be able to update again, but I wish all of you a merry Christmas if I don't get to before then! As always, thanks for reading!**


End file.
